Chapter 23: The Ilvermorny Stand
February 1994 chilled Evan Grayson's new townhouse near London's Wizards' Tower with a biting wind, the Thames a slate ribbon under a heavy sky as he stood by the window, rucksack slung over his shoulder, the air sharp with the bite of coal smoke and a faint whiff of river damp drifting through the glass. The kitchen held a tin from breakfast, rye toast with a scrape of jam, and a kettle sat cold by the hearth, but his mind leaped outward, fixed on Ilvermorny's call. Sensus Periculi's sale to the Towers two months back had spread it far, fame swelling from whispers to roars, and the invite to speak on spellmaking, a craft now king, pulled him across the Atlantic. He'd packed light, clothes and parchment and quill and Galleons, his spells' yield a fortune in gold, the Towers' hum a rhythm he was still learning.
He cast Transitor Celer, Eo, picturing London's Tower steps away, shifting in a hum, landing by the Thames under a gray dawn. The spire loomed, Europe's heart, and he cast again, Transitor Celer stretching across the ocean, Eo whispering Ilvermorny's gates from a trader's sketch, landing on a windswept plateau in Massachusetts, the school's stone towers rising stark against snow-dusted pines under a pale sun. A greeter waited, a wiry witch with a wand tucked in her sleeve, "Grayson? Follow me." She led him through halls lit with rune-etched lamps, magitech stirring here too, students murmuring as he passed, Sensus Periculi's maker a name they'd caught wind of.
The talk filled a grand hall, walls carved with Ilvermorny's crests, rows thick with students and scholars, wands and rune-stones catching the light. Evan stepped to the podium, throat tight, parchment in hand, the crowd's buzz a weight he was still learning to shoulder. "Spellmaking's no gift," he began, voice finding footing, "it's work, intent and numbers and words, forged slow." He traced his path, seventh-year Room of Requirement nights with tomes spilling secrets by wandlight he was still unpicking, each spell a grind. "Sensus Periculi came from an experience in Switzerland," he said, "a clash that showed me shields need eyes. It's Tier 4, passive, senses danger before it hits, a hum I'm still tuning."
Questions surged, "How's it pair?" "With shields, it warns and they block, still learning the weave." "Runes in it?" "Not yet, but the US is pushing 'em hard, innovators now, my spells however are not made with runes. Magic development had stagnated before the Towers, you're breaking it wide with new ideas." The crowd hummed, fame settling as a scholar's cloak he was still stitching, spellmaking vital in a world remade. Companies had pivoted, Zenith etching TVs with runes, screens crisp as 2024 from his old Earth with voices clear across oceans, startups popping with smartphones, magic slashing years off their craft, screens glowing with charmed glass he was still marveling at.
Post-talk, he lingered, buying a rune-etched TV from a Boston stall, big and sleek with 2024-sharp clarity, Galleons swapped for a charmed crate he'd haul home. Back at the Three Broomsticks by dusk, Apparating from Ilvermorny's gates, Evan sank into a chair by the bar's open door, butterbeer warm in his hand, chatter swirling with the breeze. Theo and Lila waved from a nook, Theo's oak wand tapping a mug, Lila's hazel one on her belt. "Scholar now?" Theo grinned, mud on his coat. Evan nodded, "Ilvermorny talk, spellmaking's king there. Sensus Periculi's everywhere." Lila smirked, "Famous git." He sipped, "US is innovating, TVs like 2024, smartphones fast with magic, bought one for the house." Theo leaned in, "News here, Sirius Black's free, new government's sharp, Pettigrew squealed, others out too, beats the Ministry's rot." Evan whistled, "Order's winning somewhere." They toasted, mugs clinking, fame a hum he was still learning, the road curling back home.